This unexpected declaration by my grandson Nick struck me; an emotional hand-grenade, difficult to understand, because I had bought him six new pairs a week ago.

Upon checking his sock supply, I reasoned that he did, indeed, need more socks. It mystifies me that socks travel and go missing when they should be either on their owner’s feet or in the laundry.

Where do socks go?

I decided to put socks into two or more categories. Socks that match and are folded are considered “married” and go in the drawer. Odd socks are “separated or divorced” and are stored in a bag.

Socks beyond repair are given one last chance to be useful. These are placed over one’s hand to apply polish to furniture or wax to cars.

Separated socks have neither patience nor loyalty for their escaped partner. In their haste to mate, they quickly bond with any other sock that bears some slight resemblance, be it size, color, or texture. Often, if compatible, they even marry for a brief time.

Visiting socks are gypsies. They invade the laundry basket during sleepovers or other activities, and have no original ties or roots to anyone living in the household.

Last year, I had an opportunity to focus on a puzzling sock saga firsthand because I made it my personal mission to keep tabs on the family socks. My findings defied a normal, or logical explanation.

Over the next several months, my grandson Nick complained about not having an adequate supply of socks. His mother and I bought socks on a fairly regular basis, so we were forced to replay the ‘take better care of your things’ verbiage which mothers and grandmothers have embedded in their DNA.

Nick endured our mini-series with his typical teen-age grimace that signals, ‘you-guys-just-don’t- understand.’ I’m sure many of you are familiar with that expression. But he was always missing his socks and declared his innocence about misplacing them. There had to be an answer, a reason, something.

One day last summer, my daughter needed an item from the basement which required moving several boxes. In a remote corner, she discovered a nest of sorts which had been carefully constructed by Cracker, the family cat. The purloining puss had apparently become besotted with Nick’s socks.

Unfazed as to their state of cleanliness, she brought them, probably one by one, to her private sanctuary which was littered with stains, bits of bone, and feathers. After she stopped shrieking, my daughter brought the mess outdoors and dumped it on the lawn. Our curiosity demanded some satisfaction; the scene was too bizarre and ridiculous to not assign the socks an honest, verifiable number before banishing them to the trash barrel.

We carefully picked through the mess and counted. The total was 46! Every sock belonged to Nick; not a single one was his younger brother’s or anyone else’s known to us. Nick graciously accepted our apologies, though later, I observed him shaking his head as he glared at Cracker.

Socks have a will of their own. They sometimes lounge in backpacks, or in the ‘Under The Bed Boutique’ where I found many of my missing tops, etc., when my own kids were in their teens. But socks are ingenious mavericks. They enjoy travel to other places and are able to render one speechless; make one nearly become unhinged trying to figure out where they could possible be.

My husband offered one solution; launder three socks at a time and you’re bound to end up with a pair. If, by chance, two are missing, the one remaining sock, probably, could be the one you’ve been looking for. If none remain, you can say you didn’t wash any and use that as an alibi. I considered writing to Hanes; and suggest they start packaging socks in threes; ‘a pair with a spare’ if you will, a unique, brand-new concept.

Now, “Have you seen my blue sock?” is a query usually followed by, “Look in the separated/ divorced bag.”